Aeliniel
by staredecisis27
Summary: An age after the breaking of the line of Kings, Amera, called Aeliniel by the ancient lords of Arnor, awakens to find the world she once knew all but faded. Now, as a line once thought broken is restored and the threat of Mordor rises in the East, she must determine what her fate will be alongside the Fellowship of the Ring as the battle for Middle-earth begins.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Please be aware that I am the author of the other 2 fics by the same name on this site. This is going to be a reboot of the entire series and I'm excited to be returning to it. That being said, please don't worry about plagarism and additionally, be aware several major changes will be made from the other one. :)**

"It just isn't fair," Sam grumbled darkly, tugging lightly on Bill's reins as they made their way up the hillside.

Aragorn took note that Merry rolled his eyes. It had been a peaceful journey eastward thus far. Long periods of silent trekking through grassy plains and over rocky hillsides marked with the occasional remark or retort from one of the hobbits. They were slow but faster than he had expected, much to Aragorn's relief. It had taken them the better of two days to understand the weight of all that was suddenly put upon their shoulders, the force of the evil that hunted them. It saddened him that they had had to realize such at all.

"All sorts of foul things just poppin' out," Sam continued, sighing in frustration, "Hoping to get back that Ring and come after such as us."

Aragorn looked over his shoulder then, choosing to finally speak. "For all your enemies, Master Gamgee, there are many who will also aid you. That is why we go to Rivendell. Elrond and his folk will shelter you there."

"Yes!" Pippin spoke up excitedly. "The elves'll help Frodo!"

Sam agreed with a small nod, still rather undecided about the entire thing. If nothing else, he supposed he was at least somewhat eager to visit the elves old Mr. Bilbo had so often spoken of. That, at least, had been worth giving up his warm, comfortable bed for a few days. "Well, I'm glad for that, very much so, but still, I'd like for a few more allies with dangerous looking swords."

Aragorn perked a brow. "Do you find mine not dangerous enough, master hobbit?""

He turned a faint shade of red, "I…well…you know, those…those things, back at the Pony. Wraiths, you called them, they were awful." Sam sighed now. "Why is it that all the ancient things seem so out to get us?"

Merry snorted from aside him. "Gandalf's ancient. You're forgetting about him."

"Not all that has kept from walking the earth wishes you harm," Aragorn replied softly, keeping pace to encourage them along, "There is much in the world that desires to entreat with none, save when they must. The Nazgul are servants, they heed the call of their master, but there are many in Middle-earth as old as they that answer to no one."

Merry's expression grew thoughtful. "My uncle used to talk about these trees down in the Old Forest, trees that would whisper and move it seemed, just out of the corner of your eye so it felt like you were imagining it. He said there was a man that lived there too, or at least he could hear him singing through the trees. We supposed he was just a little overfond of pipeweed."

Aragorn grew silent then, working his jaw before offering a small shrug. "There is much of myth and legend that has long been forgotten, some of those myths and legends desire to remain just so."

"Like what?" Pippin called out, a few steps behind and beginning to pant, "Frodo's uncle's seen a dragon, you know; went and stole from it, actually! That sort of thing?"

"Dragons have often wished to remain with no company save their stolen hoard, yes, though some have tried to win their allegiance through gifts and promises. Most, however, had little luck and met a fiery end." Aragorn reached out to brush Bill's mane gently, swiping his tongue over his lower lip. "We have many stories," He remarked after a moment of thought, "My people, about what once was." Aragorn ran a tongue over his lower lip, setting his jaw as he continued making his way up the rocky hillside. "Long ago, there was one who guarded the ancient city of kings, called Annuminas, on the shores of a great lake. As the kingdom of Arthedain fell into decay and the city abandoned, she remained there as a guardian, as a reminder of what had been and could be again. It's said she aided and counseled the kings of Arthedain, took up a blade alongside them as the threat of Angmar grew in the North." He looked over his shoulder towards the halflings. All but Frodo appeared confused and he realized he had spoken too much of what they did not know.

"What happened to her?" Frodo continued and Aragorn spied the curiosity in his bright eyes.

"No one knows," He said, "After the last king of Gondor fell, she was never heard from again. Some say she'll return one day to restore glory to Annuminas, others say she died long ago. Either way, it makes for a good tale for children." The last sentence rang hollow on his tongue.

"And what do you think?" Pippin inquired boldly.

Aragorn shrugged, voice growing quieter. "It makes no difference what I think." Pippin huffed at that and Aragorn sighed, amending his reply. "If she were to return, gladly would her aid be accepted. The Free Peoples are in need of whatever allies they can muster."

"You said the last king of Gondor," Frodo spoke up once more. He was quick, Aragorn had noticed, recognizing what details his companions oft overlooked. "Does Gondor no longer have a king?"

He did not say anything at that. It made him uncomfortable, talk of such, and he regretted the topic of conservation. Still, he nodded and replied very quietly, more solemnly than he had intended and not as quickly as he might have cared for, "That line was not broken.

And then, across the thick forests of the Trollshaws and over the snowy peaks of the Misty Mountains and deep in the heart of Fangorn Forest, something that had slumbered for an age beneath the mossy branches and green leaves, stirred.


	2. Chapter 2

It was not often Gandalf felt young, yet he felt near a child beneath the thick boughs of Fangorn. The moonlight streamed through the ancient branches and lit the forest floor before him, shadows dancing atop the earth as clouds lazily filtered through the night sky. It was ancient, Fangorn, and it seemed to him one of the few things unchanged since first he had stepped onto Middle-earth. He knew, however, frowning as he silently trod forward over the twisted roots, that it would not remain so long for, not if Saruman had his way and his devices. It had pained him to see the corruption that had so poisoned his mentor, to see the lust for power in his former friend's eyes. Yes, much was changing in Middle-earth, Gandalf knew as he continued further and further towards the thick of the forest, and not all of it for the better.

He reminded himself to be cautious as he grew closer and closer to the heart of Fangorn, glancing briefly over his shoulder to try and catch sight of the eagle lord's proud form, but the trees had swallowed him up long ago. As they had soared through the night away from Isengard and Saruman, Gwaihir had spoken of something in the forest, something that had not been there before, told to him by the swallows and birds that dared fly above the forest for none would enter the ancient groves. It was in the heart of the forest, they had chirped to their lord and so he had explained to Gandalf, something was there, something that was old.

Gwaihir had managed to land in a small clearing, the tips of his proud wings brushing against the branches as Gandalf, exhausted and filthy, had slid from his back onto the thick moss. Each step reminding him of how badly he needed rest, Gandalf nonetheless continued forward, calloused fingers clutching his staff in preparation. He searched his mind and his memory as he grew closer and closer to the heart of Fangorn, searching for some shred of lore, some piece of history that could give him hint as to what awaited him. It is older than you, Gwaihir had rumbled, it is older than much. I can feel it in my wings and in my bones when I fly over the forest. Can you not, Mithrandir, feel it?

And it was true, Gandalf could not help but notice, finally stepping into the clearing. The air was different here, the silence of a different sort. Holding his staff close and at the ready, his sharp eyes narrowed as he scanned the mossy floor, he treaded forward. It appeared the same as the rest of Fangorn, shadowed save for what pale light slipped through the ancient leaves and painted the twisted roots that covered the forest floor. He stood for a long moment and saw nothing.

Gandalf sighed, shaking his head with a small grumble and turned to begin the long, tiring tread back to Gwaihir to the south, eager to deliver word of Saruman's betrayal to Elrond and also to rest safe in Imladris. However, he paused as he caught sight of something from the corner of his eyes. Fingers tightened around his staff and he held his breath, taking a silent step forward. There, barely lit by the moonlight, was a shape different from the gnarled branches and roots of the trees, a form nestled at the base of one of the old trees.

He froze, eyes slowly trailing over what he had discovered, widening as he realized just what exactly it was. A little smile crept into the corners of Gandalf's lips as he watched the form stir, moonlight glinting in pale eyes. Yes, much was changing in the world, he laughed softly, but some of it was for the better.

The first thing she saw was the stars. Eyes slowly focusing as she lazily blinked the sleep from them, she caught glimpse of the stars overhead. Few were above to pierce through the thick canopy of Fangorn, but her eyes had always been sharp and so she saw them. She stared for a long moment, chest rising and falling and she did nothing but exist, breathing in the chill air and feeling the soft earth beneath her fingers.

Sitting upright, she brushed her hair back from her eyes. She felt in a fog, some great haze of confusion sweeping over her mind and body, dulling her senses and slowing her awareness. It occurred to her distantly, dreamily, that she was waking up.

"It has been long, Aeliniel."

Her head snapped up at the sound of the voice. The word was strange to her, Aeliniel, and the top of her tongue moved to form it even as the old man continued, "I had not thought we would meet again."

It was then the confusion hit. Glancing around frantically, clutching the dirt and scrambling backs, she realized she had no idea where she was nor how she had gotten there. A moment later and she realized she did not know even who she was. She knew nothing save that the air was cool against her skin and the earth soft beneath her legs and the voice of the man calming through her sudden terror.

The man moved forward and she moved back, "I will not harm you," There was that word again. He knelt down and she saw the kindness in his eyes, "It has been a very long time, indeed, and I am very glad to see you once more."

"Where am I?" The words fell from her lips instinctively, brow furrowing. "How did I- I…I know nothing."

He frowned at that, bushy beard twitching around his lips. "I suppose such is to be expected," He finally stated, "But perhaps in time you will come to remember. Until then, I will let you know of all that I can."

"Mithrandir." She blinked, startled at by her own, sudden statement. Swallowing hard, she stared at the man, at the staff in his hands and the grey robes cloaking him. She realized she knew him, but the memory flickered and shifted before she could capture it entirely, light bending over water. "Your name is Mithrandir."

"Indeed," A soft laugh, "It seems you remember something after all! We were friends once, I might say, you and I, and so we still are if you are not opposed to it." She blinked and he laughed again. "You have been gone a very, very long time, Aeliniel, and for that is your confusion all the greater, and you have returned at quite the time, indeed. Much has changed, I fear."

"Aeliniel?" Her tongue ran over her lip, tasting, testing the word. It felt good, familiar somehow. Owned and right. "That is my name."

"One of many," Mithrandir held out a weathered hand to her, "You were also partial to Amera, I recall."

For the first time, a little smile played around the corners of her lips, eyes brightening at the recognition. Amera. Amera. All at once so familiar and so foreign. She knew that was not her true name, no, but all the same it filled her with a warmth Aeliniel did not. Mithrandir extended a hand and she took it carefully, wincing as she slowly rose. Her body seemed unused to the movement.

"Come with me," He nodded once, "And I will explain all that has passed in your absence, for there is much that has been."

A sudden exhaustion overcame her as she nodded in agreement and she could only murmur in agreement, swaying as her legs trembled beneath her. "My name is Amera." Her eyes slowly closed and she found she did not have the energy to fight against the heaviness of her eyelids. The last thing she saw was a small smile upon Mithrandir's lips, his eyes warm and familiar, and then she knew nothing more.


	3. Chapter 3

_It was raining. The droplets were gentle and cool and she smiled as they trailed over her ears and mouth and nose. Amera loved the city most when it rained, just as this. It seemed cleaner to her, fresher somehow, purer for the water puddling in the cracked marble and tip tapping off of crumbled roofs. The mist rose in the distance from the lake but the sun could not yet pierce, not just, for a bit longer, and the city was blanketed beneath a pale mantle. She smiled and closed her eyes, breathing in the cool of the morning. Home. This was home. Silent and pure and peaceful._

 _Her bare feet are cool against the wet tile of the city streets and her fingertips glide over the ancient stone. There were stories in the stone. There were dreams and whispers and memories and sometimes the stones spoke when she slept. They would murmur to her and she would listen. Sometimes, she dreamt of what she had never seen, of streets filled with grey eyed lords, tall and noble. The city once had rung with laughter and the calls of merchants and the sounds of life, of living, but she had never known that. It was a silent city to her, an empty one. A relic to maintained and guarded, but it was her duty and for that, she smiled at the silence._

The first thing she heard was the soft chirping of a distant bird, its gentle song soothing. Then, the melodious twinkling of distant chimes carried their way to her as she slowly grew more conscious of her breathing and, finally, the smooth silk of the sheets that enveloped her. A gentle breeze brushed against her bare shoulders, chilling her, and she moved to curl further beneath the sheets.

Then, without warning, the deep aches resting within her bones and muscles made their presence known and Amera groaned loudly, biting her lip as she struggled to find a comfortable position. Her back felt as though a whip had slashed it open, fire gliding across her shoulder blades in distinct lines and patterns. Gasping now, she sat up and shifted, to move in such a way as to quell the sudden pain, but found no comfort. However, after a few minutes of genuine discomfort, the pain began to fade and through confused by it, Amera decided it was altogether tolerable.

She attempted to stretch her aching body and winced at the response, but carefully made her way across the room as she eyed a pitcher and a few pieces of fruit. Amera began to search for a glass but quickly gave up and tilted her head back, placing the pitcher to her lips and drinking deeply. The water was icy enough to take her breath away as it soothed her raw throat and she began to choke, spluttering and coughing as she set the pitcher down. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and viciously tore into an apple, closing her eyes in rapture as her stomach was slowly appeased.

It was no more than an apple but to her it seemed the most delicious thing she had ever tasted of, sweet and crunchy and cool. It was gone in a few moments and she put the core down on the table, taking pause to glance down at herself. Dressed in a simple shift, Amera was pleased to find she appeared clean, though her fingers caught briefly on a few tangles as she ran them through her hair.

Wherever she was, Amera knew as she took the time to look over her surroundings, it seemed she was safe. The afternoon sun streamed through the open window and warmed the tiles beneath her bare feet, bathing the room in a rich gold. Her keen ears heard the sound of rushing water and she moved the balcony before she knew was doing, heart soaring. Searching for the source, she found herself smiling as her gaze fell upon the stream lazily making its way far below her, pure water rippling over stones and against green banks. A voice in the back of her mind suddenly whispered that this was Imladris, home of Elrond Halfelven. Amera did not know how she knew this but knew it somehow to be true. She wondered briefly how much more she knew, how many other memories were kept from her, swallowed by the mist that had clouded her mind since her waking.

"I am glad to see you are awake." Amera flinched despite the softness of the voice. It was familiar, somehow. "We had thought to wake you, but decided it best you receive what rest was needed." Before her stood one of the first born, his golden hair streaming over lithe shoulders that she recognized as belonging to a warrior. She knew all his kindred to be fair but this elf appeared lordly to her, beautiful and strong and wise and she bowed her head upon instinct, feeling lowly before him.

He laughed after a moment, a smile appearing upon his features and Amera found she recognized him. It was not a recollection of fact, as it had been with Imladris, for she knew she had never been here before and perhaps had only read, had been told of the last Homely House, but Amera knew that she had met the elf before. "You do not remember me." It was a statement, not a question. "Worry not, Amera Dagorwen, I had been told perhaps you would not and such is no offense. If Mithrandir has spoken true, it seems much of your memory has escaped you."

Dagorwen. Battle, her mind whispered, it means maiden of battle just as Aeliniel means lake daughter. You are both and you are more. She swallowed hard as the elf continued, his eyes gentle, "You are in Rivendell, the household of Elrond Halfeven, and here you shall be safe. Much safer than Fangorn, from whence Gandalf told me he found you. You have been asleep a long time and these past three days we had feared you would not wake at all, so I am glad to see you up and moving."

Amera blinked, "Three days?"

"Yes," He laughed softly and the sound comforted her, "But such is a short time indeed, given how long you were gone."

Glorfindel. The name suddenly sprung to her lips, nudged there by her mind, "I remember little, Glorfindel, and for that I hope I have recalled your name correctly, for I cannot recall our meeting." Amera gnawed on her lip, working to concentrate on the slew of memories lingering in the corners of her mind. "I can barely remember my name, much less what…what others have called me."

"You remember my name, however," He gave a gentle smile, "And that is a start worthy of praise. We fought beside each other once, long ago, and you fought well."" Glorfindel paused and she saw sorrow flicker in his bright eyes, a deep sadness, "Much has happened in your absence, Amera."

Her absence. Amera sighed, running her tongue over her bottom lip and preparing herself, all at once afraid and eager to hear the answer she had been seeking, "I know it has been long , for I feel it. The world is not the same, not as when last I knew it, but when that was I cannot say. I remember waking but not how I came to slumber. How long has it been, Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel was silent for a long moment and Amera thought she saw the sadness in his eyes turn to pity. "A thousand years, Amera."

Glorfindel watched as her ivory face turned a deathly pale, her jaw setting so hard he could see the veins in her neck twitch. She said nothing. It did not surprise him, her silence, for what did one say when confronted with a past forgotten? He noticed she did not question him, however, standing resolute but silent. Rising after a moment, Glorfindel inclined his head towards her, gesturing towards the door. "I have something I was bid to show you, Amera," He said softly, "If you mind it not. My lord thinks perhaps it will be of some aid to you, to your memory."

She stepped forward immediately and he smiled at her eagerness. Yes, Amera wanted to remember, needed to, judging by the desperation that flickered in her pale eyes. "There are robes for you in the dresser and should you need anything else, it will be provided. You are welcome here, Amera Aeliniel, both as friend to Elrond Halfelven and to the Free Peoples," Glorfindel looked once more over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him, "And so also unto me."

He waited outside and she appeared a few minutes later, clad in simple, blue robes. She had not tied her hair back. Unable to meet his gaze in a display of shyness that surprised him, Amera nodded to let him know she was ready. He led her onwards through the winding halls of the last Homely House, beneath the intricate arches and through the marbled courtyards. Casting a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye, he noted that her feet were bare despite the boots that had been laid out for her. She must have often gone without shoes, Glorfindel determined as he led her onwards, for there was no reason she needed them. He bit the inside of his lip to hide a smile at the thought, knowing that she was acting out of habit without fully realizing it herself.

She did not say a word under they arrived at the doors of the library, her brow furrowing as she remarked softly, "Books?"

"Yes," Glorfindel laughed quietly and ushered her in. Watching her gaze travel over the stacks and stacks of tomes, over the ancient wood that housed them and the flickers of dust that glittered in the afternoon sun, he could see she was curious now. The initial fear she had first displayed was faded, the confusion dulling her bright eyes quelled by sparks of curiosity, of wonder as she slowly turned, taking in the levels of the library.

"I once had a library," Amera added quietly, "Or I suppose I watched over one, rather, but I did read. I remember it. There was stained glass in the windows, high vaulted ceilings."

"The library of Annuminas was a wonder of the West," Glorfindel continued, seeing her head snap towards him as the mention of her city, "Equal to none save this." He strode silently across the tiled floor, running his hand over the dusty spines of line of books before he paused. Withdrawing it, he set it down upon a table and Amera was beside him in a moment.

He delicately flipped through a few pages, certain that this was the one Elrond had spoken of, and sure enough he paused soon after. There, cast in the soft light streaming from the windows above, was a picture upon the faded parchment. A woman stood on pale marble steps beneath a broad arch, the sun glinting off of it. Behind her was an enormous city, standing proud and fair against rising cliffs. A few banners rippled against the sky, a six pointed star woven into light blue fabric. The woman was slender and tall, appearing as fair as one of his own kindred upon first glance, but even in the simple portrait that was something different about her, something that distinguished her.

Amera drew a small breath beside him and he saw that she knew, a trembling finger reaching down to brush over the figure and roamed towards the dark waters of the lake at her feet. Before he could say anything, Amera turned the page nearly frantically then turned it again, pausing upon the next picture. Atop a white horse was a handsome man, clad in shining armor and bearing a circlet upon his noble brow. A sword was raised in his hand, a proud, confident grin brightening his features. In the background of the picture was a city, pale and green and dark all at once, and Glorfindel remained silent as her jaw tightened once more.

He turned to look to her fully and saw the tears in her eyes. Her jaw was set so firmly the veins in her slender neck twitched, her hands trembling fiercely at her sides as she stared at the page. Drawing in a small breath, Amera ran her tongue over her lower lip and Glorfindel knew it must be paining her to relive her memories once more, because with the years of comfort and peace came the memories of Earnur, of countless kings who had lived and aged and died before her eyes, of the storm clouds that had brewed over Angmar and of the mace that had cut into her back and the scars that had never and would never heal.

Glorfindel watched without a word as the fear faded fully from her, the anxiety flickering into sorrow and knowing. Her back straightened and her expression steeled, those eyes that shimmered and flickered like water filled with a thousand, thousand memories. Her hands curled slightly and he wondered if she was imagining the feel of leather against her fingertips, the grip of a hilt against her palms.

Finally, she spoke and when she did, it was not the voice of the nervous woman who had stuttered and lowered her gaze before him, it was the voice of one who remembered and knew and understood. "Glorfindel," Amera said softly, meeting his gaze, her own eyes still tearful, "I remember now. All of it, I remember."

His smile was sad despite his best attempt otherwise. "I am glad."

Amera looked back once more the book, to the figure of Earnur painted against the page and to Minas Morgul looming like a shadow behind him. Glorfindel watched her swallow hard and draw in a little breath before nodding, voice unwavering and determined, "Tell me everything."


	4. Chapter 4

Her head ached and for all her years of slumber, Amera found she desired nothing more than to crawl beneath a blanket and rest until the aches in her bones and in her head and in her heart faded. However, such was a luxury she would not afford to herself, not even for her weariness. Glorfindel had given her a few minutes alone upon her request and she had found herself nearly collapsing with the weight of the memories that flooded over her. It had taken only a few pages, a few simple drawings to trigger what had been hidden from her but she had looked.

And she remembered.

Images of stone, water, earth and blood swept through her and stole her breath away. She remembered the sound of rain against crumbling marble and the chill of mist against her skin and the warmth of the rising sun. She remembered flashes of faces and the glimmer of grey eyes, crowned brows and bright swords. A thousand years of memory all at once. It was so much and it was too much.

Amera had lowered herself onto the floor, shaking violently all the while as she drew her knees to her chest. Roughly pushing back her hair with her hands, her eyes wide, she had gasped for breath as her mind absorbed a thousand years of recollection in only a few moments. There was pain there too for all the joy she remembered and she felt the hot prick of tears. Yes, there was happiness, but there was also loneliness and sorrow, regret and hope. It was enough to leave her reeling and she took the few minutes of privacy to try and compose herself as best she could.

Still, for all the emotions flooding through her and setting her limbs to shake, there was still a curiosity in her. Why now? What had caused her to wake and why had it done so? She remembered Mithrandir had found her and he had seemed just as surprised to see her as she had him. They had only met once, very long ago, and it seemed by accident that he had come across her. Amera rose to her feet, drawing a long breath and running a hand through her loose hair to try and remedy the tangles she had caused. She also had met the leader of his order, a wizard who's name she could not recall, but Amera remembered the cold curiosity in his eyes as she had smiled and bid him welcome to the City of Kings, to fair, silent Annuminas. Perhaps he had sent Mithrandir to collect her, perhaps he had been the cause of her reawakening?

There was still more, Amera knew as she smoothed out her robe and rubbed away the remnants of tears from her eyes. There was much more that still flickered in the shadows of her mind, more memories that would reappear with time, but for now she sought to sate her curiosity. She rejoined Glorfindel in the hall a minute later, expression steeled to the best of her ability. She saw the pity in his bright eyes and ignored it, giving a simple nod to show she was alright.

"I would speak to both you and your lord," Amera said softly, "And Mithrandir as well, if he too is within the valley."

"That is well!" Glorfindel laughing, a shining sound. "For so does my lord desire to meet with you, Amera Aeliniel. Many questions, he has, and so also have I. I had not thought to see you again but glad am I for it." He nodded once, his voice growing gentler. "Many will be glad for your return."

He began to walk and she followed aside him, forcing herself to block the flow of memories swirling through her mind, to focus on his words instead of the glimmers of her past. "Much has happened in your absence," Glorfindel continued, "And no doubt Mithrandir or Lord Elrond will be able to give you a more helpful summary than I would." He kept speaking but she found herself distracted by the elves that passed them, for only once had she spent time in the company of the firstborn and the circumstances that had brought them together had been less than ideal. They were beautiful and fair, much like the elven lord beside her, and there was a wisdom in their eyes where she had only even known pride, there was a coolness, a poise where she was accustomed to fiery passion.

She had been a servant unto the kings of men, not to elven lords.

All were courteous unto her, smiling faintly and politely inclining their heads and it seemed to her they were glad to have her in their fair halls. Amera could tell they knew who, or rather what, she supposed, she was, but not one said a word as Glorfindel led her onwards through the last Homely House until they reached a study. It was outside the doors that he finally paused, turning to her and meeting her pale gaze with his own. "You have been missed, Amera."

She was caught off guard by that. "For what?"

"You were a counselor unto the kings of old. Your wisdom was-"

"I counseled no one." Amera interrupted briskly, her words firm. That much she remembered. "Men simply came unto my city and so did I speak to them when they asked it of me. There was never wisdom in my words."

Glorfindel shook his head and she saw the pity once more in his eyes. "You fought the Witch-king of Angmar at Fornost and lived to tell tale of it. You earned a title from my kindred possessed by few not of our race."

"You gave me that title," She paused, glancing downwards with a small tilt of her head, "And I barely survived our meeting. The scars on my back are a testament to that."

"Yet you did not and it was a title rightly earned."

She shifted her weight, drawing a breath, "I picked up that sword because there was nothing else left to fight for, Glorfindel. There is no courage in desperation."

He was silent for a long moment and she felt naked beneath his eyes, like a child before a parent amused. "Is that what you think, Amera?"

Her voice hardened then, eyes glinting like steel. "That is what I know."

He did not reply, instead opening the door to the study and moving to allow her entrance. Amera felt his gaze upon her back as she entered into the room, immediately comforted by the stacks of books piled upon the tables and neatly placed into shelves. Mithrandir was sitting, his grey hair even wilder since their last meeting,and beside him stood a dark haired elf, tall and noble in his bearing. Inclining her head and bending lightly at the waist, she caught glimpse of a tired smile from the wizard as Elrond Halfelven, for she knew it was him, placed a hand over his heart in greeting.

"I am honored by and grateful for your hospitality, my lord," She began quietly, "Much had I heard of the beauty of Imladris, but what words fell upon my ears brought no justice unto your lands."

"And honored are we to have you, Aeliniel," Elrond replied, "Though I would wish our meeting be in a happier hour than this."

She paused, running her tongue over her lower lip. "I fear I do not know what hour is upon us, my lord, though from what Lord Glorfindel has hinted at and what now you state, I should think there is much that has passed since last I treaded the West."

"Indeed there has!" Mithrandir nodded, resting his hand on his knee. "Though perhaps it best to determine why we are graced with your presence at all, Amera Aeliniel, for many and myself included thought you dead long ago."

Amera was unsure how to reply at first and Elrond took note of her hesitation, motioning for her to sit. A moment later there was a glass of wine before her and she took it gladly, curling her fingers around it. It gave her something to look at as she considered her words. "I…I should be dead, I suppose, or at least still asleep in Fangorn, yet it seems I am not, yet also I see no reason for my wakening. I had thought it perhaps the leader of your order, Mithrandir, who was with you when you came unto Annuminas, but it seems it is not so?"

"No." His face grew hard. "Saruman is no longer an ally unto the Free Peoples nor do I think him capable of awakening you, for you are no object to be summoned at will, Amera." She looked up from the wine at that. "Whatever the reason for your waking, it is one welcome."

"I mean no offense by such, but why?" Amera asked softly but bluntly, "I am no great warrior nor have I your wisdom, Mithrandir," She glanced to Elrond, "Nor have I your skill in healing, my lord. I…I was naught but a caretaker, a reminder."

"We are glad for all allies we can muster, Aeliniel," Elrond interjected, sitting across from her. "The Free Peoples of Middle-earth seek any who would lend them aid and they are fewer than we had wished. Saruman's betrayal is not to be taken likely nor the force of his will to be underestimated. The loss of his alliance is a grievous blow, indeed."

"Betrayal?" Amera remembered Saruman, though only dimly. He had been cold in his wisdom, scornful where Mithrandir had been curious, and she had not been sorry to see him leave Annuminas. "What cause has Saruman betrayed?" She paused once more, her brow furrowing as she tilted her head, eyes darkening as she questioned, "With whom has he chartered an alliance, if not the Free Peoples?"

Mithrandir and Elrond looked at each other, silent for a long moment. Finally, the wizard looked to her, a faint smile playing around the edges of his lips despite the exhaustion in his voice. "It seems your slumber has not dulled your wits, Amera Aeliniel. We may have need of them yet." He sighed and ran a weathered hand through his beard. "Do you know of Isildur's Bane?"

Amera perked a brow, tentatively sipping at her wine to settle her nerves. "The Ring of Power? Yes, perhaps not much, but I have read of it, but what need is there that I should know of a legend?"

"Until a few days ago, you were naught save a legend," Elrond said. She flushed. "Much that was once called legend is now before us, Aeliniel, and just as you are here so also is the Ring."

Amera nearly choked on her wine. "The One Ring? Isildur's Bane?" She suddenly grew very pale, her voice taking on a renewed urgency as she set her glass aside, pressing a slender finger against the table in emphasis. "If that has…has been found, then surely Angmar will seek it, if you do not have it already. The Witch-king will-"

"Angmar does not have the power it once did, Amera," Mithrandir interrupted gently, "But the Witch-king now answers to another."

"Another?" She clutched the cup until her knuckles ached. A shadow of dread clouded her heart and she found she understood, for all her confusion. "Isildur's Bane has been found and the Witch-king answers unto a master, while one who once was a great ally unto the Free Peoples seeks the favor of another." Amera swallowed hard, working to temper her voice. "Sauron. Sauron has returned or seeks to, does he not?"

Elrond nodded and she pressed the back of her hand to her lips, closing her eyes as Mithrandir continued, "As he has returned, though his spirit has never truly died, we had thought so you also had returned, that you had chosen to awaken, had sensed this somehow."

Amera shook her head, opening her eyes slowly. "No, I did not awaken of my own choosing. I…," She swallowed hard once more, painfully aware of the flood of memories that surged in her mind, each roll of the tide bringing renewed grief she had no desire to feel once more. "It is complicated, Mirthrandor. There was no king, none left of that line. Long had Annuminas had been abandoned, I knew that then even if I was loathe to admit it. My watch was ended."

Elrond was silent at that, but Mithrandir's eyes grew very soft suddenly, a little smile appearing. "It seems, at last, we understand the reason of your return, Aeliniel." He leaned forward and she watched him, confused all the more. "A chieftain of the Dunedain, he is of the Line of Elendil and so he is an heir to the throne of Gondor and your Annuminas."

Amera's eyes slowly widened and she stared, fingers faintly trembling around her glass. She blinked and her expression grew nearly hungry, tinged with confusion and desperation, but also touched with hope.

Mithrandir smiled at her. "You have a king, Amera."


	5. Chapter 5

She gently ran a finger down the length of the glittering sword before her, feeling the curves and angles of runes that spoke of things far older than herself. The blade itself was curved slightly in the fashion of the elves, the hilt wrapped in treated leather that had been dyed a dark blue. It was simple compared to the ceremonial swords carried by the guards and councilmen of the city but was beautiful enough to take her breath away. With trembling hands, she slowly wrapped a slender hand around the hilt and felt the precision of the weight in her arm as she lifted it, the pale light of dusk shining against. It was certainly an elven blade, tempered in the forges of Imladris or the Greenwood if her judgment was correct, and was lighter than she could have anticipated.

 _Amera looked up to meet the calm, grey eyes of the king, unable to find her voice. He laughed softly, stroking his silver beard as he watched her in amusement. "Shall I assume you find it to your liking, Aeliniel?"_

 _"My lord," She gasped, her stormy eyes wide with surprise as they continued to take in the beauty of the sword, "This…this is too much. I cannot accept such as this." She carefully laid it down, lowering her head in respect and moving her hands to smooth out her robe._

 _He laughed again, gently taking her chin in his hand as he lifted her gaze to meet hers. "You think far too little of yourself. You have served without complaint and glory in the houses of my fathers and in mine, though no requirement has been made of you. You deserve far more than a simple blade, Aeliniel, but I hope it pleases you."_

 _Amera's eyes watered slightly and she blinked rapidly, doing her best to hide how truly touched she was. Her voice wavered as she replied; a shy grin appearing in the corners of her lips. "It is beautiful, my lord. I...I was certainly not expecting such as this."_

 _He smiled at her and for a moment she once again saw the glimmer of youth in his proud, grey eyes, recalling the king before her as the noble young man who had been crowned on a bright, warm day in what had seemed like such a short time ago. A shot of pain ran through her heart and she hid it, like she always did, as she watched each of the lords of Arthedain grow old before her. Earnil had grown dear to her over the years, treating her as a trusted friend instead of an unnatural ally, as many others had. She would miss him terribly, she thought as she glanced down yet again at the beautiful sword in her hand, his loss would linger on._

 _Soon, in but a blink of her eyes, he would die just as all men did._

 _Earnil watched her for a few more moments, then gently kissed the top of her head and smiled kindly at her when she lifted her gaze, his voice soft but strong, "There may come a time when you have need of a blade, Amera, and I would have it be a strong blade, as true as any found in Middle-earth. All the same," He nodded once, "May you never need it. I wish you that."_

Amera ran a hand absently through her hair, still feeling the emotions of her dream even as she had slid from her bed and began to dress herself. All night she had been plagued by her memories. They were more vivid when she was sleeping, the emotion as strong as it had been when first she had lived out all she recalled. Because of it, she felt the touch of grief brush her heart and had been her lip, focusing on the bird song outside her room to ward it off. She found a gown that had been laid out for her and slipped out of her shift, pressing her hand to the back of her mouth to stifle a yawn.

It was strange to her, her exhaustion, for despite sleeping for a thousand years, she had never been more tired in all her life. By the time she had finished speaking with Mithrandir and Elrond, who had told her that not only had Isildur's Bane been found, but it was with a halfling only a few minutes' walk from her own room, Amera had briefly considered if it would be possible for her to rest for yet another age. She had collapsed into bed upon her leave, struggling to keep straight all she had been told. It was no surprise to her that the Witch-king yet lingered on nor that Arthedain and what all had once been Arnor was in ruin save for a few Dunedain, but still it had pained her greatly to hear it.

She sighed heavily, closing her eyes and taking a moment to let the cool silk of her gown settle over her limbs. Amera could only remember wearing a dress as fine as this only once and that time, it had been black and she took no joy to see herself clothed in it. It had been a dress for mourning but this was a dress for a beginning, she told herself fiercely, a dress not for an end. Her fingers moved next to her dark hair. She had always preferred it loose, to feel the faint waves fall over her shoulders and tickle her collarbones, but decided to tie it back in a thick plait.

Aragorn. That was his name. The name of her king. Mithrandir had explained he too was in Imladris, that he had aided the halfling and it had been none other than Glorfindel who had brought the Ringbearer to safety from the Nine. He was a ranger, the wizard had told her as he walked her back to her room far into the night, a chieftain of the remnants of the Dunedain. He had also told her that there were few now who carried the blood of Numenor but she had grinned for it, the first smile to touch her lips since the passing of Earnur long ago.

 _Aragorn._

She rolled the name once more in her mouth as she began to walk towards the courtyard and tried to ignore the sudden nervousness that settled over her. She had known many kings in her life and not all of them had been kind. They were proud, Men, and she knew better than any that men feared what they did not understand. To some, she had been a counselor and a friend, a trusted companion who would listen and speak with all the wisdom she could muster. Yet, to others, she had been useless, a beautiful, empty relic guarding a beautiful, empty city. Still, she reminded herself as she came to the entry way into the beautiful courtyard, no matter what his opinion of her, she would serve as always she had and always she would.

"She has not yet remembered all," Elrond had told him, his hands clasping behind his back as they walked together, "but she remembers enough to know who and what she is. Gandalf has told her of the Ring and of Sauron, but she knows little else of all that has transpired since her leaving." His grey eyes grew somber them and Aragorn remembered they had seemed happier in his youth, had been brighter. "She had asked of the Witch-king's campaign in the North, if Arnor had fallen, Aragorn. Thus far, she has seemed to take all well enough, but a thousand years is a long time, even by the count of my people. I had thought her to be in shock, given how calmly she has reacted, but Gandalf assumes her well enough to meet with you."

Aragorn had been silent for a long moment at that and Elrond sighed, turning to face him. "Once the Aeliniel guarded the city of your forbearers and so also did she serve them, counseled some of them from my understanding and went to battle at their side. I would offer you some counsel, Elessar, but I know not what to say myself. Glorfindel speaks well of her and also does Gandalf, but I had thought it best for you to meet with her yourself." He paused once more then continued, his voice softer and lower than before. "She is old, Aragorn, and yet new to this world and for that, I would bid you be careful."

So it was that Aragorn had arrived at the courtyard, sitting in thought and preparation before he met her. He knew the tales as well as any, for they had been held dear amongst the Dunedain. He ran a hand through his hair, closing his eyes and remembering all that he had been told as a child, all the stories shared by him and his kindred around fires bright against the darkness of the wilds. Long ago, when Arnor had been split into three realms and Annuminas abandoned, the king of Arthedain had stood as the last to leave the great fortress, had paused to remember the beauty of the Elendil's city as he passed from it forever. However, as he turned one last time over his shoulder to bid farewell unto Annuminas, a woman had risen from the blue waters of Lake Nenuial. Awed, he had asked her speak and she had said she was a guardian, a watcher sent to protect and preserve the tombs of the kings of old from age and harm and so also to keep Annuminas.

The King then left, eager to tear himself from the city he and his brothers had so loved, to leave behind the streets he had played in as a child and the throne he had once thought to rest upon. The North remained at strife, the three kingdoms clashing and the Witch-king ever seeking to smite the race of Men, and so the King forgot about the woman who had been born to bid him farewell.

However, Aragorn sighed softly, eyes distant as he sought after the memory of the story, as the King grew old and neared what he knew would be his death, he desired once more to look upon the place of his youth and returned one last time to Annuminas. There, standing as fair and as youthful as when he had left so long ago, was the maiden. He called her Lake Daughter, _Aeliniel_ in the tongue of the elves and the old Kingdom, and after his passing, so his son came to visit the city of his forefathers and speak to the Aeliniel and so also his son after him.

There she had waited as king after king came to remember the glory of Arnor, of Elendil and the tombs of the ancient kings who stood proud and shining on the banks of the lake. Glorfindel had met her at the Battle of Fornost, Elrond had told him, and he had given her the title _Dagorwen_ , Maiden of Battle, for her courage. Few earned such a title as that from the elven lord and for that, Aragorn understood Elrond's hesitation and concern. She was an ancient thing, the Aeliniel, older even than the wizards and more oft than not ancient things cared little for the present.

He knew full well that much within Middle-earth had begun to stir, sleeping things awakened anew.

Whatever the stories had claimed, they all held one thing in common. They all ended. After the death of Earnur, his leaving and never returning from Minas Morgul, there came no more tales of the woman who watched over the first City of Kings. Amongst the Dunedain, it was said, though only to children eager for a story, that one day she might return when Men needed her most, that she would return unto the service of a true King bearing the blood of Numenor. That king, Aragorn realized as he lowered his gaze, was him.

He looked up a moment later, aware of another's presence and there, standing silently, was the Aeliniel herself. Aragorn was not sure what he had expected but he found himself taken back by how young the woman appeared. She seemed at first to be one of the Eldar, for she was graced with their uncanny grace, but as she took a step closer to him, he saw it was not so. There was something untamed to her for all her beauty, something that hinted that she was something different, something wild and feral in her prominent cheekbones and in the brightness of her eyes.

He watched as her eyes widened slightly at the sight of him, her mouth trembling as they simply took each other in. Aragorn moved towards her and

she drew in a small breath. Slipping into Sindarin, for he assumed her most comfortable with that tongue, Aragorn stated softly, "It is an honor, my lady."

At that, the Aeliniel suddenly bowed, black hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her voice was soft, a trembling whisper. "I beg you forgive me my emotions, my king, but I… I had thought-"

"There is no need for apology, my lady. No harm has been done." He gently waved a hand to reassure her and when she looked up, their eyes met for the first time. Aragorn was briefly lost in her pale gaze. Her eyes were a shade of blue he had never seen before, pale and rippling and deep. In them, he could see the waters of Nenuial, silent and pure, and he was reminded that she was a being ancient, something born of water and not of the world.

"Once did I serve the kings of old," the Aeliniel continued quietly, "And I so also am I sworn to serve you."

"Sworn?"

She paused to consider the question, the wind stirring her hair around her pale face. It occured to him that this was not a question she was often asked. "I was to serve as a reminder to the kings of the West of all that once was and all that could be restored. I have always served, though I took no oath save one to myself, my king."

"My name is Aragorn," He said kindly after a pause, "You need not call me king, for I bear no crown."

"If you so desire, my lo-," the Aeliniel corrected herself, clearly testing the word, "Aragorn."

"Have you a name, Aeliniel?"

"I was called Amera," She ran her tongue over her lower lip and he heard distant pain in her voice.

"Is that what you would desire to be called?"

"Whatever you would wish be to be called, Aragorn, so shall it be."

He shook his head and she flinched, her rippling eyes growing dark with worry before he raised a hand. "Amera, I…I would not have you as a servant at my bidding. The blood of those you once called king flows in my veins, yes, but I am no king." Not yet, perhaps not ever, whispered his mind and Aragorn cast the thought away. "You were once a friend unto the Free Peoples, that much the tales tell true, it seems, and Glorfindel has spoken of your wisdom and courage." Amera swallowed hard at that and it seemed she wished to say something, but remained silent all the same. "Do as you would, Amera Aeliniel, for you are no servant unto me, but a friend and a friend to all who desire to rekindle the glory of the West."

Amera was silent for a long moment and he watched her reaction carefully, certain he had upset her, had said the wrong thing. Her face remained completely passive and as the wind stirred her dark hair, he saw sorrow in her features, but also hope. Finally, suddenly, she nodded and closed her eyes, biting on her lower lip to temper her emotions. "As you wish, Aragorn." Amera's eyes opened and very gently. A little smile appeared Aragorn found himself stirred by the sincerity in her final words. "Thank you."


	6. Chapter 6

It was a good sword, Amera decided as she gave it a careful swing, feeling the distribution of the blade's weight course through her arm. One of the sons of Elrond had given it to her upon her request, flashing a warm smile and offering her choice. She had heard there was a twin dwelling somewhere within the valley, but had yet to see him.

She had selected a simple blade, slightly curved as was typical of elven make, and Elrohir had said it was an old thing, that sword, but as true and as sharp as ever. She had smiled faintly, looking at her own reflection in the steel. It seemed fitting to her.

He had asked why Glorfindel had sent her in the first place, inquiring if she intended to battle another while she remained in the halls of his father. Amera had laughed softly at that, a rare grin twitching in the corners of her lips. It was one of the first times she had felt truly comfortable since she had opened her eyes in Fangorn near a week ago. Everyone she had met was absurdly gracious to her, kinder than she could have imagined, but all the same she felt strange, a relic somehow; both present and past all at once.

Amera lowered the blade briefly, setting it aside as she pulled her dark hair back with a strip of cloth. She had managed to find an abandoned hall with far more ease than she had expected. Dwarves, elves and even a few halflings, the ones brought by Aragorn from Bree-town, filled the Last Homely House in preparation for the Council tomorrow. She had kept to herself for the day, had locked herself away in her room and poured over manuscripts and books from Elrond Half-elven's library. She had been asked by the lord himself to attend tomorrow, an invitation that had surprised her, and she was determined to appear as knowledgeable about the state of Middle-earth as any in attendance. What she could not understand, she asked Mithrandir to fill in the spaces between gaps. It was much, too much in truth, and more than once Amera found herself struggling to listen or read on.

Her heart ached with the weight of it all.

She had tried to sleep once night fell. A soft bed and silken sheets invited her but brought her no slumber as she laid there, tossing and turning and dreaming. Amera had eventually sighed and rose, knowing she would find no rest, and reached for the sword granted her. A few minutes later and she had dressed herself in a simple robe, her bare feet padding over the cool, moonlit tiles.

So it was that she picked up the blade once more, contented now that her hair had been pulled away from her eyes. Giving it another small flick around her wrist, she felt the steel slice through the night air, silent and lethal. Amera shifted her stance then, moving and bringing the sword to protect her neck and chest. It felt good, the weight of a sword in her hand, and she began to move quicker as she grew more comfortable. It was not her sword, the one granted by Earnur, but it was more than enough.

She wondered briefly what had happened to it, working to avoid the brief pang of guilt that accompanied its memory.

Her muscles, though they had not moved as such for near a thousand years, remembered the motions after a few minutes, how to parry and thrust and _fight_. She allowed ancient instinct to take over then, losing herself in the now remembered motions. Amera's pale gaze was briefly reflected to her in the steel of the blade and she allowed the rush of memory to overtake her as she fought invisible enemy after invisible enemy. She remembered the first time she had killed, how her fingers had dug into the shoddy leather of a crude hilt and how they had trembled when they pulled away soaked with blood. She remembered the first time she had practiced with a sword in the courtyard of Gwairband, in the shadow of the Great Library of Annuminas, how stiff, how alien the blade had felt in her slender hand. She remembered the tremor that had shot through her sword as the great blade of the Lord of Angmar fell upon it, the clash of steel that had rung through her ears and into her bones. She remembered battle, the smell of blood thick in the air and the cries of dying men ringing out above the fray. _It is easy to pick up a blade, Amera,_ Earnur had told her, _but once it is drawn, you will find it hard to sheathe._ There had been something like pity in his eyes as he had looked at her, the dark clouds of Angmar gathering in the sky above them, sorrow that it had come to this.

 _Do this, Amera_ , he warned her softly, _and you will never have peace. Draw that blade and Angmar will not forget._

The memory set a surge of grief rippling through her and she gritted her teeth, twirling the blade around her wrist as smooth as water and cutting through the air in a fierce, downwards stroke. However, Amera nearly dropped the sword a moment later, flinching as she saw someone staring at her.

She took a swift step back and drew a shaky breath, blinking once and running her wrist over her brow.

"Forgive me," The visitor said quickly, voice deep but humored, "I had meant no interruption nor harm."

Amera looked up with a weak smile, her heart beating furiously within her chest. She suspected she looked half-crazed and smoothed a few loose strands of hair behind an ear. "That is well, for there was none. You merely startled me; I had not expected an audience."

The man stepped forward, shifting his weight off the pillar he had been leaning against casually. He was tall, strong, and Amera instantly recognized his bearing as that of a warrior's. "You fight well," He nodded towards the sword in her grip, "I had heard of the skill of the elves, but I fear what tales have reached my city do little justice."

Amera blinked in brief confusion, only for a slight flush to color her cheeks a moment later. "No, I-, I am not one of the firstborn." _There is none other like me._

The man smiled. "Glad am I to meet another of my race then, for few there seem of us in the Last Homely House. Do you hail from the North?" He was handsome, his features proud and rugged, yet still hinting at a good nature. Auburn hair fell to his shoulders and she recognized him as a man of Gondor nearly instantly. Amera could not help but think that somehow he looked familiar. They had not met, after all there were no mortal men living that would have known her an age ago, but all the same there was something in his face that hinted at memory, recognition.

She feared her pause too long, her gaze too intense, and quickly gave a faint smile. "Yes, I am from what was called Arnor." It seemed an easier explanation than to admit she was neither elf-kind nor of his own race. "You bear not the fair hair of the Eorlingas nor do I think you of the Bree-folk. Gondor, is it?"

He grinned proudly at that. "I am, indeed, my lady. My home is the White City and it is from there I rode out to seek counsel." A pause. "One of the Dunedain, then." He nodded and continued before she could correct him. "I had thought your kind all but gone from Arthedain, but it seems there is another of your kindred in Rivendell. A friend of Gandalf he called himself." Amera realized he was speaking of Aragorn. "Some of your kind guard the forests of Ithilien, if you know of them, along the borders of my country." The man added, as if an afterthought.

She didn't know of them, hadn't the slightest idea, and simply stared blankly for a moment. The man shifted his weight, then asked gently. "Have you a name, my lady?"

"Amera," She gave a polite nod in reply, "And you need not call me my lady. Courteous as it may be, my name alone suits me well enough."

A brow perked slightly but he did not question further. "Well met, Amera of the North. Boromir, I am called." Boromir looked to her sword. "You wield that well, better than most seasoned men I have seen in battle."

So he was a warrior. "Thank you. I've rather a long time to practice."

"May I see it?" She held out the sword to him and he took it carefully, eyes flickering with recognition and interest as he looked the steel over. Boromir remained quiet for a long moment and she could see the intensity in his gaze as it fell upon the blade. "It is a good sword," He finally stated, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and carefully raising it. "Though I fear I know little of the craft of the elves, I should think I know a fair blade when I see one."

He moved to hand it back to her and she nodded. "I fear it is a borrowed blade, for my own is…is misplaced at the moment, but I am honored to have been granted it all the same."

Boromir smiled, glancing once more to the sword. "I fear the hour is late enough already and I am keeping you from both your practice and your rest, so I will bid you a good eve, Amera." He turned to walk away, then let out a quick, awkward laugh and looked over his shoulder. "I hope you'll forgive my asking, but have we met? You look familiar, though from where I cannot say."

Amera ran a tongue over her lip, uncertain of how to reply, for she also thought him familiar, somehow. It was stranger, though, that he should somehow recognize her. Perhaps he had seen her in a book, as the one Glorfindel showed her, perhaps a statue? She considered introducing herself formally, to explain what she was, but decided against it a moment later and shrugged with a hint of a smile. "I think I would have remembered our meeting, Boromir, for not oft do I meet those who hail from the White City."

He was silent for a moment, then nodded with a faint grin. "A good night to you, then." Amera watched him leave silently, running her fingers absently over the leather hilt of the sword. When she could no longer hear his footsteps, she sighed softly. Frustrated by her inability to determine just who exactly he reminded her so greatly of, she moved down the hall and found an open balcony. Stepping into the moonlight, she sighed and breathed in the cool night air.

It was beautiful, Imladris, and when she closed her eyes she was able to imagine the sound of the distant waterfalls as the lapping of Nenuinal against the ancient bricks of her crumbling home. What state was it in now, her fair Annuminas? How great a toll had it paid against the wares of time and decay? Once, long ago, before she had risen from the water, it had been a city shining and bright, a beacon of hope unto the Men and to all those who would not bend beneath the weight of evil. But now, Amera sighed and set the blade aside, moving to rest her hands against the balustrade, it was empty, dirtied and abandoned.

The world was changed now, that much she could not deny nor pretend otherwise, and was changing around her. What she had known, what had guided her steps, was gone. Those she had called king, the few she had called friend, were dead, faded into lore and legend like it seemed she also was. Arthedain had fallen, the North had been crippled by the Witch-king and had passed into abandonment. Her world was gone, she swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the marble tightly, and would never be again.

Amera drew in a small breath, her throat tightening as she forced herself to choke back the tears springing in her pale eyes. She had a choice, she decided as she looked out over the valley. All this beauty, this peace, was threatened now as it had been so long ago. It was at risk and could as easily crumble as her own home had. Some things, she realized bitterly, did not change. Always would evil seek to conquer that which was good and so long as there yet remained good within Middle-earth, there could never be true peace.

Tomorrow she would attend the Council. Amera rubbed briefly at the few tears still threatening to course down her face. One day, perhaps, she could grant herself to cry, to allow herself to crack beneath the great weight of decision and memory forced upon her, but not today. She would not afford herself self-pity.

She returned to her room then and slipped beneath the silk sheets, determined to wake and attend the Council alongside what others of the Free Peoples had gathered. When she closed her eyes, finally drifting to sleep, she dreamt of all that once had been.


End file.
